“What?” The vampire looked more confused than ever. Definitely well-past his use-by date.
“Roy, any time you’re ready.”
“I don’t know, Suze,” I said, holding the vampire’s eyes with mine. “Are we one hundred percent sure this bozo qualifies?”
“Actually, I’d say one or two percent above that. Only just.”
“What is wrong with you people?” the vampire fumed, and I could see he’d made the prolonged decision to let the girl go. Playtime was over.
I plunged the stake into his stomach first. “That was for fun,” I said, as the spook shrieked with pain. I pulled the tool out and stuck it right where the heart was supposed to be, behind a couple of fractured ribs. “And that’s for offensive fashion.”
There was no exploding, no accelerated decrepitude, not even a decent yodel. The vampire fell backwards onto his bed, holding the stake, and lay there stiff. Cue lacklustre applause. Fall of shabby curtain. Blah, blah.
Suzie was still hanging from the chandelier above me, her high-heels a few inches from my nose.
“Did we win?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t we always?”
“You’ll catch me?”
I thought hard about that one.
Revert to Type was the third story I wrote in 2012 that featured my new duo Roy and Suzie, Investigators of the Paranormal and Supermundane, and the one I had the most problems getting accepted.
Then again, the process isn’t so bad when you receive nice rejections like this one from Mike Chinn in June 2012, who was putting together The Alchemy Press Book of Pulp Heroes: “Although I enjoyed Revert to Type I’m afraid that it didn’t make the final cut — but don’t imagine that’s because it was a bad story or I didn’t enjoy your writing. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble placing it elsewhere.”
When I pitched it to fellow writer (and mate) Liam José @ Crime Factory in Australia — for their Horror Factory anthology — he suggested as follows:
“Love the characters and the banter, but…it just feels like there is no weight to it, there aren’t clear enough stakes, and no real feeling of conflict. I love the fun breezy tone, so I’m not suggesting that the first three quarters be changed, but I think it should have a slightly darker ending. Just an idea, but have you considered the typewriter landing on someone when it is struck out the window? The idea is already seeded in there, and it would tie everything together, make the piece feel stronger, and would be really effective in contrast with the light feel. It would almost undercut that slightly self-assured cockiness that Roy possesses.”
Liam was spot-on.
I nipped and tucked the end along these lines, and the tactic works better, methinks. This also empowers Suzie a fair bit — about time too.
Revert to Type
“I want you to purge the thing and take it away.”
“Nothing like a spot of purging,” I agreed.
We were standing on the threshold of a small sunroom, into which late afternoon rays drifted through gently swaying curtains. The short man beside me, the one who’d suggested the purge, was dressed in a smart suit that whiffed of mildew, mothballs and a bottom-line fragrance of urine. He looked like the Hollywood actor David Niven before he died. Classy, British, a moustache, ancient. Over the other side of the space, on a solid oak desk, was a vintage Underwood 11 —1940s and equally creaky.
“So what was it you wanted purged?”
“That typewriter. All the keys and the spacebar work, except the ‘H’,” the old guy said with some pride, his voice dusty. “They’re the original glass-top tombstone keys.”
“Neat,” I said. I blew out my cheeks and made a loud sigh, didn’t care if it were rude. “Honestly, though, looks like you gandered in the wrong parts of the Yellow Pages. We’re not removalists or pawnbrokers.”
“Didn’t think you were, Mister—?”
“Scherer. Roy Scherer. We deal with stuff that’s, well — crap.” I was struggling to place my finger on precisely what it was we do, and ‘crap’ was a good word for it. Then I realized I had a better escape hatch. “Suzie, why don’t you tell the gent?”
This was a perfect cue for my hyperactive ‘assistant’ to jump into the fray.
“Scherer and Miller, Investigators of the Paranormal and Supermundane,” she announced, as our baby blue business card spun across the table like a stationery shuriken — Suzie was getting to be flamboyant with their dispersal. Sadly, the old fart misjudged the spin and dropped it on the floor. I didn’t see him having the stamina to sweep up the card. He left it in the lint.
“Want a shot at another one?” Suzie asked.
“I think I’ll give it a miss. So, about the typewriter?”
I passed fingers through my hair, doubtful. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s driving me to distraction —clack, clack, clack, whiz-whirl, ka-ching! at all hours — and then, when I storm in here to discover what the racket is all about, the bastard is docile and calm. Silent, even.”
“As all good typewriters should be. What do you think the problem is?” I could be a persistent bugger, and I was guessing senility.
“I haven’t a clue — you’re the experts.”
“Depends if the base issue is metaphysical or medicinal.”
“I’m not mad.”
“So you’re saying it operates itself?”
“Precisely.”
“Power surges?”
“This is a manual typewriter. There’s no plug. Even so, the bugger starts up anytime it likes, typing away and then hitting return with that stupid bell. Ding, ding, ding! I feel like I have a tram in my apartment. It also leaves me messages.”
“On the phone?”
“Of course not. It doesn’t speak.”
“Then it writes to you?”
“Yes, that is the inference.” Our host was getting irritable. I’d been wondering how long that’d take, and this time there had been remarkably little contribution to the nonsense from the bespectacled blonde on my left. She was gazing over at the typewriter in analysis-mode as the old guy handed me some US Letter size papers.
On the first was a shopping list, typed in caps — PLEASE BUY: PAPER, RIBBON, CORRECTION FLUID, and something called MAC INE OIL.
“What’s ‘MAC INE OIL’?”
“Machine oil. I told you — the ‘H’ sticks.”
“So you did. Hurrah,” I muttered, putting the list to the back of the pile and examining the next note. “Okay: ‘WOULD YOU RUB SOME OF THIS OIL ON MY KEYS?’ Pfft. The typewriter has tactile tendencies. The ‘H’ is there here.”
I didn’t expect any response to a quip prime-time stupid before it left my lips.
“Can I look, can I look?” Suzie railed from nearby, the goddamn kindergartener.
I put up blinkers as I passed the papers back to our prospective client. I could still make money out of a ruse if I played my cards right. Definitely the man was bonkers, but a rich loon was always better than a mad pauper.
“I charge a hundred bucks a day, plus expenses.”
“Sounds reasonable. This fee would cover the young lady as well?”
“She’s a bonus. Now, is this your typewriter?”
“No. It was my father’s. A writer.”
“Classics?”
“Good Lord, hardly. Pulp — the usual kinds of horror, science fiction and detective stories. He made a pretty penny.”
“I have to ask. Your old man’s passed on?”
This old man cocked his head as he pursed his lips with a post-lemonish demeanour. “Well, now. What do you think?”
“Mm-hmm.” He was too elderly to punch out and, anyway, I was too young for Marquess of Queensberry rules. I ignored the tone. “So — he died on the typewriter, or near it?”
“You believe it to be possessed?”
“Like you, mate, I haven’t the faintest. But please answer the question.”
“My father died in a hotel in Reno, on top of a two-dollar
hooker.”
“Thought you said he avoided the classics?”
“Oh, really now. You have the gumption to call this service?”
“I call it getting a job done.”
“Roy. Shhh!” That was Suzie — who else?
I tried not getting annoyed and instead took out a pad to pretend to write. “Father nowhere near typewriter. Two-buck tramp.” I rested my hand. “And how often would you say this machine…activates itself? Per day, I mean.”
“Once, sometimes twice. Usually at night. The swine likes to keep me guessing.”
“Have you tried feeding it?”
Yep, Suzie again, tossing in her all thumbs’ two cents. The landlord and me combined forces to look over sharply, causing her to blush.
“Ribbon, I mean. Ribbon. Jeez, what were you two thinking?”
Time to ignore the girl — surprising, really, how often that occurred. “Why don’t you just throw it out?” I suggested.
“What?” David Niven looked horrified.
“Open the window. Pick up the typewriter. Toss it.”
“Do you know how irresponsible that is? I live on the fourth floor. What if it landed on someone’s skull?”
“Well, all right, if you want to play socially behaved, why not carry the typewriter out of here, down the stairs or in the elevator, and stick it with the trash?”
“I’m eighty-two years old. You try lifting it.”
“Sure.”
I sauntered over to the bureau. There was an undusted bag of golf clubs leaned against the other side, so I moved this behind me, propped up on the wall. The sun outside was already hightailing. It’d be evening in a matter of minutes. I placed the writing pad in my pocket, eased hands beneath the rim of the machine, and hefted — well, tried my darnedest to do so. The monster weighed a ton and hardly budged. Stupid 1940s machinery. I took a step back to survey the situation and when I looked over I spotted a smirk on fossil-man’s face.
“Sir, would you mind? We prefer to work in private.”
“Certainly, certainly. My poor manners.” He lifted his chinless jaw with that smirk and waltzed out in slow motion.
When the door closed, I had my moment. “Arsehole.”
“Smooth,” I heard Suzie respond over my shoulder.
Mocking? Oh, man. What kind of rubbishy situation had I stumbled into? My subconscious gnashing of chompers told me it was time to get serious. I again attempted to pick up the typewriter, when I accidentally hit the carriage-return button. Louder cursing from me swiftly pursued a loud ka-ching! — The carriage had hit dead centre of my crown jewels.
Worse still was Suzie’s cackling giggle. I felt like pulling out my gun and blowing away either the typewriter or the girl — wasn’t sure which would offer the most satisfaction. Probably neither, given the ongoing pain I experienced. “Shut up, will you? Gimme a moment. Crap.”
“Double-crap.”
That was precisely when Suzie stopped laughing and I ceased breathing, at least for a couple of seconds. I forgot all about the ache. Something wrong was happening to the typewriter, just as the last wink of direct sunlight disappeared.
Six long, shiny beetle legs — at least a metre apiece — slid out from the machine’s casing, and it lifted itself upright, meaning the metal typewriter was vertical, with the keys positioned precisely where a beer belly’d sit pretty. As for the head that now emerged…fuckit, was that a head? Just above the Underwood logo was something looking like a rodent’s muzzle, inverted, so there was a hole in the scaly face and two bulbous black peepers that stared straight at me, unblinking.
“Hey,” I muttered — some sort of absurd, unintentional greeting — but the bugger was rude and stared without a word. “Ahh, the strong silent type.” Very carefully I put my hands behind me, feeling for the dusty bag of golfing irons.
“Clack, clack,” the typewriter finally said. Not through the crazy mouth, but via its torso.
“Clack?” Suzie responded.
“Clack, clack…clickety-click-clack!”
“Talkative bugger, isn’t he?” I muttered. “Suzie, what the fuck is that?”
“Oh, now you need me?”
“Sunshine, let it be said I always need you. I pretend otherwise — image and all.” I doubt she believed a word, but needed speedy facts instead of infantile lip.
The ploy appeared to do the trick.
“Honestly? I’m not quite sure,” Suzie said. In the corner of my eye I noticed she edged back, against the wall, but was impressed she held it together. I knew how much the girl detested insects and mice, and this was one very sorry merger of both. “Alien infiltration, akin to a hermit crab? Some kind of organic/ mechanical hybrid? A rat trapped inside the contraption? Personally, I’m steering toward the first one.”
“Remind me again.”
“Alien infiltration — strikes me as similar to a report I read about a sentient typewriter in Tangier, though that came down to insecticide the people were inhaling. Could instead be a ghost in the machine?”
This last comment got the blighter typing: “Click, clack — ka-ching! Clackety-clack-click!”
“Careful with the clichés.”
“No ghost? Okay, fair enough. You know — I think it might be attempting to communicate with us in Morse code,” Suzie said, just as my fingers sized up a lob wedge.
“Open the window, will you?”
“Oh, sure — it’s quite hot, right?” My pretty young assistant yanked up the glass. I noticed there was sweat on her temples. “A little fresh air will do us good while we decide what to do. First of all, is this little man using American Morse code, or Continental German? There is a difference. Hopefully it’s the international standard version. Someone, somewhere, has to have a Morse code guidebook. Easier still to find online. Do you think our client has a PC? I know it’s not exactly useful, but if we need to buy one we could put in a claim for the purchase with our next tax return, and—”
“Six!”
Yep, the choice of the lob wedge was better than the simple brutality of the driving iron. It conjured up a shot with a high arc that took the typewriter over a low bookshelf and the windowsill, clear into the evening air. I heard the clack-clacking diminish until an explosion of metal hit the ground far below. I’d never, ever, played such a rowdy game of golf.
Suzie jumped to the window and peered down.
“He communicating still?” I asked, as I merrily returned the club to its bag.
“I can’t hear anything.”
“Didn’t take out any innocent bystanders in the process?”
“I don’t know! Too dark down there to see. But it’s probably in little pieces.”
“You can thank me later.”
The girl looked back at me with a perky, annoyed frown.
“You really should learn your correct sporting commentary. That was a golfing shot, yet you resorted to cricket — a ‘six’ is scored when the ball goes over the boundary rope without touching the ground. No one shouts it out except idle spectators. If it’s golf you were mimicking, then you should’ve shouted out the warning ‘fore’ — and it’s not spelt F-O-U-R but F-O-R-E. Okay?”
“Blah, blah, blah. Write it up in the visitor’s book.”
“You’re completely —completely — shameless, Roy. You just destroyed a beautiful antique, and the sentient being that inhabited it. D’you know what we could have learned from this creature?”
“Meh, it prob’ly would’ve sounded all French to me, the way he kept dropping those H’s.” I gave her a big sham smile and headed for the door. Time to collect our pay.
The apartment was silent and most of the lights were off. David Niven had either done a runner or stepped out for a game of lawn bowls. Either way his wallet had gone with him.
After taking the old concertina elevator down to the ground floor we walked out and discovered our patron sunbaking on the pavement in the dark, his head sandwiched by a busted up, completely normal-looking 21.5 kg typewrit
er.
“Oh, Christ,” said Suzie.
Me? I was transfixed by the spectacle. For the first time in a dog’s age no snappy comeback veered my way. Some false teeth lay on a close-by nature strip. I stared in silence, barely able to breathe. A pool of black liquid ran into new cracks in the cement. I’d polished off a human being.
“Roy?”
“I’m screwed,” was all I could say.
“Roy.” Suzie placed herself between the corpse, the machine, and me. “Roy, you listening to me? Roy!” She slapped me hard, a stinger that struck the left cheek and the corner of my mouth.
“What?” I asked, still vague and slowly focusing on the girl’s face. There was anger there, also a stubborn purpose I’d never seen Suzie display.
“Snap out of it. Now. We need to move.”
“I killed the guy.”
“You killed the typewriter. Whether the old man and the typewriter were some kind of bizarre kindred spirit, or if he had the bad sense of timing to be passing beneath when you knocked the monster out the window — well, we’ll never know and it honestly doesn’t matter. Pull yourself together.”
“But — I —”
“But nothing!” Suzie glared up at me, holding my arms. “We are not going to jail for this, not for doing our job. We’re simply going to walk away. To do so I need to tidy up things. What did you touch in the apartment? Roy, what did you touch?”
I tried to look past her but she dodged in the way again. A light rain had started to fall.
“Not there. Look at me. What did you touch?”
“I — the typewriter. The golf club.”
“Which one?”
“The typewriter, the one just — a…”
“Which golf club?”
“The lob wedge.”
“Right. Nothing else?”
“No.” Water dripped down my face but I barely felt it.
Suzie turned on her heel, went to the dead body, and wiped over the fractured pieces of the typewriter with her sleeve. That done, she stood straight to peer up at the building we’d just left.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t stray. But any fool stumbles across this mess, we’ll meet a block down — thataway.” The girl pointed towards the corner of Sholes and Glidden. “Understand?”
The Condimental Op Page 6